Forever and Always
by Ilysia11
Summary: Eventually, Henry always returned to his homeland. It just so happened, however, that each visit introduced him to a member of Britain's wizarding community - for better or for worse.
1. One Summer Day in 1899

_August 8, 1899_

"Mr. Dumbledore! What brings you to my humble pub?"

Albus smiled at the man but it lacked any warmth. Weariness occupied his eyes and face, as if unbearable sorrows had settled in his soul. The bartender's smile loosened.

"Well, Mr. Diggle, a drink, I suppose, just like any other man."

His voice was subdued, as if Albus were speaking through his hand. Mr. Diggle frowned at him, but nodded and waved his wand, summoning a firewhiskey.

He handed it over to Albus and murmured, "Feel better, ol' chap. Whatever it is, I'm sure a wizard as capable as yourself can handle it." Albus nodded with silent thanks and Mr. Diggle walked away.

He stared at the firewhiskey with a sort of clinical curiosity. He'd never resorted to drinking away his sorrows and he had imagined he never would. Practicing his spellwork and diverting his attention to intellectual pursuits usually cured him, or at least absolved him of any lingering emotion. This, however, was not an instance where he was simply trying to forget. Instead, he was trying to forgive.

His gaze rested hesitantly once again on the bottle. It shone with insidious light in the bar's dank, dark room.

He had come to the bar to drink but . . . His hand paused mid-air. It did not feel right.

But _nothing_ was right anymore. He took a deep, shuddering breath. It was only him and Aberforth now. Father had been the first to go, then Mother.

 _And now Ariana._

And she may have been slain by his own hand.

Albus flinched. His hand grasped the bottle once again. It was warm, comforting. He let go immediately.

Murderers didn't deserve comfort.

His gaze rested on oblivion. He'd never felt guilt of this magnitude before. It felt like a Dementor was slowly sucking out his soul, bit by harrowing bit. A cesspool bubbled at the bottom of his stomach.

He had lost his father and mother, but neither loss had truly saddened him; neither parent had truly lived up to their title. And Ariana . . . His arms trembled. Did he love her? Was he truly aggrieved by her death or was he just feeling sorry for his own mind-consuming guilt? What brother could pay so little attention to his own dear sister unless he truly didn't love her?

 _"Look what you've done! You've killed her! You and that brute have murdered Ariana!"_

And Aberforth . . .

Aberforth loved her dearly, perhaps more than he should have. Albus' hands began to shake. And what did Ariana die for? What was so important that he couldn't watch where he aimed his spells?

The answer chilled him to the bone.

 _Power._

It'd always been his dream, his _ambition._ He wanted to change the world for the better. He wanted the Wizarding World to recognize Albus Dumbledore as a wise, powerful wizard—not some half-blood with a squib sister and wasted potential.

But then Mother died and he had to care for Ariana . . . _Merlin,_ he'd been so _angry._ What right did his mother have to die and force him to put his dreams on hold? What _right_? It wasn't fair! He was the most brilliant wizard to attend Hogwarts in generations and there he was, squandering his potential by looking over his younger, magically-handicapped sister.

He'd paid Ariana so little attention. He'd merely thought of her as an obstacle to his dreams, an _object._ Aberforth truly took care of her. Albus was just _there,_ ignoring her as he would a pebble in the road _._

And then he met Gellert Grindlewald who cultivated his desire for power and blinded him to all else. He'd nearly persuaded him to abandon Ariana, his _sister,_ for some immaterial dream. Albus clenched his fists.

His knuckles turned white as his nails dug further and further into his skin. He could _still_ hear Ariana's screams to _stop fighting and talk it out!_ He could hear the wind rip as he threw spells at his friend and his brother, only for one to ricochet and _kill_ his _sister_ —

"Excuse me, sir—is there something wrong?"

Albus snapped out of his hell, breathing heavily. He slowly turned towards the voice.

It was a man . . . and no man he had never seen before.

He was a handsome fellow and looked to be in his mid-thirties with smart, slicked back hair and a rather thin mustache (when one considers modern fashion). What drew Albus' attention immediately, however, was the man's dark, ageless eyes. The man could have been anywhere from thirty to one hundred if one merely looked for years in his eyes. His face creased in worry for Albus— _a stranger he didn't even know—_ and his hand rested gently on Albus' shoulders.

Albus tried to smile in thanks, but it was a poor, hapless imitation of pleasure. ". . . Yes, sir. Unfortunately, my maladies are not physical."

The man nodded, brow furrowed. "Though I am a doctor for physical illness, I have been told that spiritual illness has similar cures. May I be of any service to you, Mr . . .?"

"Dumbledore," Albus hastily inputted, "Albus Dumbledore."

He waited for any sign of recognition in the man's eyes but none came.

The man simply nodded and reciprocated, "Henry Morgan."

The two shook hands.

Albus surreptitiously scrutinized the man, wondering. He was certainly English, or at least had a very convincing accent. He must have been from other parts. Albus was well known around this community. And, looking at him, another thought occurred to him. What if this man were a muggle? He dressed like one. In fact, he stood out in the pub, the only one dressed in a muggle suit whilst others were in robes. But this was a magical pub was it not . . .?

He gave himself a mental shake. He shouldn't jump to undue conclusions. He shouldn't jump to _anything at all._ Such an approach killed Ariana.

"Seeing by the bags underneath your eyes, I see you cannot manage to sleep for long. But it doesn't take an expert to glean that . . ."

Albus was slightly bemused. Was the man an Auror (surely he could not be a muggle . . . but he was dressed in muggle garb. Perhaps he intended to blend in?) or a researcher . . .?

"You've lost someone. Perhaps a sibling? And . . ." The man's glance turned towards his untouched drink, eyebrows furrowing. "You feel guilty about it."

Albus froze.

A knot formed in his stomach and his heart leapt to his throat. He turned, eyes slightly bulging, to his companion.

"How . . .?" he gasped. The man nodded towards his firewhiskey.

"Your drink. A man does not come into a bar for a drink and then not drink it unless he has excessive burdens plaguing his heart."

Albus swallowed. He felt blatantly exposed. Was he that easy to read? Why, if that were the case, then the whole world would know that he was a murderer by the end of the week! He knew he should not have come.

"I do not mean to upset you, Mr. Dumbledore. Please forgive me. Many have told me how unapologetically brusque I tend to be."

Albus nodded sullenly. "You're right unfortunately, sir. It was my sister . . ." He trailed off, unsure how to finish. He took a shaky breath,

He felt slightly sick at the voice urging him to be silent for fear of confessing to murder. _But . . . Merlin,_ he couldn't go on like this! He couldn't get that _one bloody moment_ out of his mind—the one where Ariana fell, dead, to the ground, killed by an unidentified spell from an unidentified caster. He couldn't stop wondering: _what if it were him?_ What if he had cast the spell that killed Ariana? He didn't know which was worse— _knowing_ or forever _wondering_ if he had killed her.

Aberforth's disgusted voice resounded over and over in his head, urging, " _Do it! Or Merlin forbid I will never forgive you. You will never forgive yourself!"_

And this man . . . this man didn't know him. He'd probably never see him again! He was merely a man he'd met in a bar. . . He took a deep breath.

". . . And I may have killed her."

* * *

Throughout his immortal life, Henry had been in many peculiar situations. But, he had to admit, he had never attempted to console a possible murderer in a bar. Were it not for the anniversary of his marriage to Nora, he would likely have not been in the bar. Normally, he didn't succumb to sorrow on their anniversary, but this was the first time in a long time that he'd returned to England.

 _Still you shackle me, Nora . . ._

Upon hearing the confession, his first instinct had been to leave, to desert the bar and allow the murderer to comfort his own rotten mind whilst he informed the authorities. But then he observed the man—young man, truly, for he could not be older than twenty—and what he saw was not the mug of a murderer but rather the face of a confused youth. The tension lining Henry's body relaxed, taut features relaxing.

"That is certainly an incriminating confession," Henry murmured, eyes flicking around the bar to see if anyone heard the statement. It seemed not.

The young man flinched and Henry saw fear flash through his eyes, followed by a flood of remorse and guilt that somehow did not fit on the young man's visage. It was a look he'd seen in war veterans, not youths.

"It is not one I readily admit either. I am unsure who dealt my sister the final blow but I greatly fear that it was me. Perhaps that I will never know frightens me most."

A weary, old man manifested in the youth's voice. He sounded so utterly _vulnerable_ that Henry was struck dumb. As an immortal, he frequently forgot, _dismissed_ , the hardships of mortal life—the very human misery which defined life. Speechless, he could only wait as the young man unraveled, vitality escaping into the atmosphere as would heat.

At once Henry remembered Nora, her once youthful, beautiful face transforming into the demented, graying old woman who had nearly exposed his terrible secret to the world—those wild eyes plagued him, haunted him for years and years.

" _Henry? Henry!"_

Even if she had betrayed him, his guilt still lingered. She had been his dream on their wedding day. So _beautiful,_ so _stunning._ He had never imagined that he'd win such a magnificent bride. He had thought that he had discovered the secret to life on that day, a day so awash in love that it blinded him to the miseries of the world until at last his father opened his eyes.

Feeling his own self-pity beginning to build up, he closed his eyes and ruthlessly squashed it. He turned to the aging young man and found him attempting to squash his own torment, to fit it into a box and lock it into the recesses of his mind. But Henry knew better than anyone that that was the worst approach to dealing with loss.

" _Stop_ ," Henry told the youth.

Surprised, the young man snapped out of his thoughts and opened his mouth to respond, but Henry cut him off.

"Stop thinking about the hypotheticals, Mr. Dumbledore." Henry firmly met the youth's tortured, blue gaze. "If you spend your entire life dissecting one tragedy after another, the past will continue to haunt you forever and always." Nora popped up into his head, half of her face awash with beauty and joy, the other with grayness and horror.

"It _festers_ and it _multiplies_ until you have become a living corpse, shackled by the past and burdened by the future." Henry paused and fully turned to face the youth. "My advice to you, Mr. Dumbledore, is to forgive and forget. We cannot always completely cleanse ourselves of the past, but we can muddle through it and eventually the horror will not seem a horror but a distant tragedy. Do your sister's memory well and keep her alive in your heart."

Henry felt a cloud settle over him, one much larger and darker than the young man's. Because unlike the young man, he could not live. He could not age, could not die, and could not have a family. He was cursed to live apart from the mortal world, an undying vigil of human suffering and misery, one destined to bear witness to it again and again and again.

Meanwhile, Albus struggled to tame his raging thoughts.

Ariana's lovely, young face flashed through his mind before withering and paling and—

Albus drew a shaky breath.

"Those are lovely words, Mr. Morgan," Albus spoke quietly, "but, unfortunately, they are merely words. Words cannot bring my sister back from the dead. Words cannot absolve my soul of murder or regret." As if someone had lit a fire, anger began simmering in the pit of Albus' stomach.

This man knew _nothing_ about him or his circumstances. His own _chest_ wasn't choking him. His own _hand_ hadn't betrayed him. Albus didn't want a stranger's comforting words. He wanted to hear his sister's voice again, alive and well. He wanted to cleanse his soul of the knowledge that he was a murderer.

His fists clenched again and he had to consciously tell himself _not_ to reach for his wand _._

Henry's gaze softened. "No," he agreed, "Words cannot bring the dead back to the physical world, but words can prolong their memories. Your life is short, Mr. Dumbledore, shorter than you think. Don't let one moment consume it."

The young man glared at him. "Let me reiterate, Mr. Morgan, that I do not wish to hear empty words from a man who has never had Death knock at his door and tell him that it wasn't Death who killed his sister, but him."

Henry looked at him, expression blank. He sighed. "You're right."

Albus furrowed his brows. "Excuse me?"

"You're right," Henry repeated. "I never had a sister." Albus opened his mouth, but Henry continued, "I was, however, married."

Henry took a deep breath, _old_ , weary eyes boring into Albus'. "She was a wonderful woman, lovely and kind . . . but she betrayed me and I left. When she found me again, I ignored her and wished her away."

He paused, gaze lowering. "Because I ignored her, she went to prison, the kind of prison one would not wish upon their worst enemy. I received word that she died not long after and I haven't forgiven myself since. On our anniversary, I often torment myself over that _one_ moment, wondering what would have changed if I had helped her."

Albus stilled. Henry's eyes, his stance . . . Albus had never seen a man so _haunted_ by his past. He tried to hold onto his righteous anger, but by merely looking at the man's sincerity, it melted away, fading like shadows before dawn.

"Nothing can erase the pain of losing a loved one, Mr. Dumbledore. The pain will stay with you for the rest of your life. And perhaps you think that is a good problem to have. Perhaps you think that mourning her for the rest of your life will absolve you and keep her alive." Henry shook his head. "Life doesn't work like that. Your sister is gone and you would be tainting her memory if you spent the rest of your life mourning her. Would she want you to waste your life?"

Albus hesitated before solemnly shaking his head no.

"Then live _for_ her and remember her life, not her death."

Albus could not move. Words though they were, Albus could _feel_ the intensity and the truth behind them. They represented the wisdom of ages, the agony of a million men.

"I'm sorry," he murmured to his companion.

The man gave him a sad smile. "Don't apologize to me; apologize to your sister."

 _Ariana . . ._

He imagined her sweet, dimpled smile, one he had always taken for granted. She had always brought in stray animals, injured or otherwise. She had always wanted to help Albus with his work and Aberforth with his . . .

Albus closed his eyes. _Ariana, I'm sorry. Please forgive me._

As he reopened his eyes, Albus felt lighter. He was boneless, tired. He'd oscillated between too many emotions, too many moments, within such a short time-span.

Peering around the bar, he decided he needed to leave. Ariana wouldn't have wanted him here.

He turned toward Mr. Morgan and gently touched the man's shoulder, murmuring, "Thank you, Mr. Morgan. I do not know how I can ever repay you for your services to me." The man simply looked at him, appearing so very old, and offered a pained smile, "Simply one generation helping the next, Mr. Dumbledore."

Albus smiled and gave the man one final nod, before he walked out of the corrosive bar. He had met a wise man, wiser than he would ever be, muggle or magical, and he was not soon to forget it.

Henry, meanwhile, ordered a drink, a whirlwind of emotions bedeviling his mind.

But even within his emotional chaos, a sense of satisfaction remained.


	2. One Fall Day in 1899

Nicolas Flamel had always considered himself a private man.

Famous, perhaps, but private. He and his wife found it quite lovely to live an unassuming life together without scores of witches and wizards banging down their doors for the secret to immortality. _Merlin_ , if Nicolas only knew what racket the bloody wizards would cause over it, perhaps he never would have developed the Philosopher's Stone in the first place!

But, of course, he had been a proud man.

He'd wanted his greatness recognized. And he had wanted to achieve the thing no mortal man had ever achieved or, truly, sustained: immortality.

He had also been a fearful man - fearful of the end, of the unknown. Fearful that he'd be lost to time - a man of flesh and blood turned into a man of ink and parchment. A mere name on a tombstone.

He'd achieved it. Even though his body had still aged and withered into an old man's wrinkles, aches, and pain, he'd turned death into a _choice._

 _That_ was the very thing that had fascinated witches and wizards over the ages, the very thing that attracted them to his doorstep.

Unfortunately, after nearly six centuries, the bloody wizards still harassed him - mostly wet-behind-their-ears witches and wizards straight out of Hogwarts who thought they deserved immortality, too. Some were historians seeking history from the man who had lived it (and in nearly _every_ case he'd had to tell them that he hadn't been in that place in whatever year because he was only _one person!_ )and others were wizards seeking magical knowledge, like young Mr. Dumbledore.

He didn't mind the latter as much as long as they weren't arrogant little fools.

He loved to teach.

That was why, in the early afternoon one late November day in 1899, Nicolas nearly ignored a knock on his door. His wife, however, bade him to answer it (and bless his soul if he ignored his wife!). Scowling, he'd gotten up, made his way to the rickety old door, and opened it.

Expecting to see a rosy face sparkling with youth, Nicolas instead found an old soul.

The man was a handsome fellow with sharp features and a crisp mustache. He looked to be in his mid-thirties yet he had this sort of agelessness about him. His blue eyes swam with memories and burdens, the kind Nicolas saw upon looking in a mirror every morning. They were not eyes which belonged to a young man. Perhaps he had fought in a recent war, though Nicolas could not recall any at the moment.

(But of course, he had isolated himself from the magical community and his visitors only wished to discuss his work.)

More astonishing, however, was the man's dress. If he hadn't known any better, he would have assumed the man were a muggle: he wore a fitting muggle suit with a dark tie and black top-hat, which he tipped off to Nicolas.

"Good afternoon, sir. Might you be Nicolas Flamel?"

 _Crisp, clear, and right to the point. Well, he's certainly English_.

Nicolas blinked. "Well, yes, but you already knew that, didn't you, Mr. . . .?"

The man smiled and offered Nicolas his hand. "Morgan. Henry Morgan. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Flamel."

Nicolas raised an eyebrow at the proffered hand. "I hope it will be a pleasure to meet you, too, but, you see, I've learned to withhold my judgement. Now that you have found me, Mr. Morgan, what is it that you want?"

A little rude perhaps, but he'd long lost his patience when dealing with other human beings - particularly wizards. To his credit, however, Mr. Morgan didn't even look slightly bothered.

"I have heard that you are quite the expert on immortality, Mr. Flamel." Nicolas snorted. _Expert_ was one way to describe it. _Owner_ was an even better way. "Might I persuade you to discuss it with me?"

Ah, so this Mr. Morgan was one of many wizards seeking his secrets. Well, Nicolas had only one thing to tell him!

"Sorry, no. I don't share my secrets. They're called _secrets_ for a reason, you realize." Nicolas shook his head and made to close the door, muttering, "Bloody wizards."

But a hand stopped him.

"I'm afraid you misunderstand, Mr. Flamel," Mr. Morgan insisted. "I don't wish to discuss your methods. I merely wish to discuss the results."

Nicolas raised an eyebrow. Then he just laughed. "You expect me to believe you, boy? That's what they all say. Then next I know, my office has been ransacked. Please leave, Mr. Morgan."

He tried to close the door again, but Mr. Morgan's hand remained. He opened his mouth to threaten the wizard, but Mr. Morgan beat him to it.

"Please, Mr. Flamel. Give me one hour. I assure you this won't take long."

Something in the man's eyes weakened Nicolas' resolve. Desperation. Weary desperation. Not ambition. Not greed. Simply _need_. Perhaps that was what rendered Nicolas speechless. He'd never come across a request quite like Mr. Morgan's nor someone as earnest about a simple _discussion_. Hesitating a bit longer, he finally sighed and released his grip on the door.

"Fine, Mr. Morgan. One hour. Then you leave. And we'll do this outside on the porch so you won't get any ideas."

Mr. Morgan's shoulders slumped in relief. "Thank you, Mr. Flamel. Truly."

"Yeah, yeah," Nicolas grumbled.

Harrumphing to himself, he turned around, yelled, "Darling, I'll be an hour!" and, after she acknowledged him, closed the door. He directed Mr. Morgan to one of the chairs at the left end, taking the little chair whose back faced the house for himself. He whipped out his wand and, checking for muggles, whispered a few privacy spells. Mr. Morgan watched silently, waiting.

After a few minutes of incantations, Nicolas put away his wand and Mr. Morgan's discussion began.

* * *

True to his word, Mr. Morgan had only been interested in Nicolas' results.

" _I take it that the Philosopher's Stone does not grant eternal youth?"_

Nicolas had grimaced and replied, _"Unfortunately not. I haven't been able to work out that kink to this day and I'm rather resigned to it. It would have been nice to live forever without aches and pain, I must admit."_

He also had to admit that he was absolutely _delighted_ by the conversation. Not once had Mr. Morgan questioned how he achieved immortality - only what happened next. It was as if he were talking to a researcher much like himself. Of course, this he asked Mr. Morgan: _"Are you some kind of magical researcher, Mr. Morgan? Your questions certainly give me that impression."_

The man had allowed himself an odd smile, as if he were recalling a personal joke, and replied, _"Yes, I suppose you could call me that."_

The most interesting part of the conversation, however, began near the end.

"You tell me your stone grants you immortality, but can you choose to give it up even after drinking the Elixir, Mr. Flamel?"

Nicolas sensed that _this_ was the question to which Mr. Morgan truly wanted the answer, but he couldn't quite figure out _why._ The man leaned slightly forward, then relaxed his stance, as if catching himself, but his eyes spoke all. Desperation. Intense focus. _Weariness._ Blue eyes like the sky before a storm, struggling to hold in all that water so it could release it at the appointed time.

Still, Nicolas found himself mind-boggled. Mr. Morgan had the chance to ask the man who had bottled immortality any question—any question in the world!—and he chose to ask if Nicholas could undo his life's work. Who in his right mind would willingly _choose_ to give up eternity?

Nicolas imagined his reply sounded rather indignant. "Well, of course," he sputtered. "The source of my immortality is external, you realize, and should I stop imbibing the Elixir, I would die - but why would I wish to do that?"

"So you have a choice," the man murmured. For an instant, Nicolas nearly thought he saw a flash of jealousy in the man's eyes, but when he looked again it was gone.

"Yes, well," Nicolas laughed, "unless someone decides to behead me. But _choice_ is the theory of it all."

Mr. Morgan didn't laugh with him. Nicolas wondered whether he had hit a nerve (and if that were the case, then it certainly told him something very interesting about Mr. Morgan).

Mr. Morgan proposed one more question: "Mr. Flamel, do you think you could create an inverse Philosopher's Stone - one which could nullify eternity rather than grant it?"

Nicolas blinked, furrowing his brows. What an _odd_ question. He was quite tempted to tell the man so.

"You mean create a stone which would bring death?" He snorted. "That would be rather pointless, don't you see? Not very unique. I'm sure the muggles already have what you're looking for. I do recall a series of daily stonings back in my birth village."

Mr. Morgan winced. "Yes, well," he coughed, "That's not what I meant. Suppose you met another wizard who had managed to discover his own means of immortality. Theoretically, could you create something which would annul his immortality?"

Nicolas' eyes narrowed.

Now that was an even stranger question, one which assumed the existence of an immortal man by means which Nicolas had never conceived, or - _his body jolted and his expression darkened_ \- perhaps he had . . .

His grip tightened around the armrests. Oh yes, he knew exactly to what Mr. Morgan was referring.

 _Horcruxes._

Those _abominations_. But another path to immortality all the same. An evil one. _What the devil has this man gotten himself into to have contact with_ those _blasted things?_

Quietly, he replied, "I'm afraid not, Mr. Morgan. Magic does not nullify; it transforms."

Mr. Morgan's shoulders drooped. He seemed even more weary than he had upon arrival and a noticeable frown marred his face. Nicolas knew he had not found what he was looking for and he wondered whether he ever would.

 _Horcruxes . . . what a nasty business._

"I suggest," Nicolas murmured, "that you turn this man over to the Ministry and allow them to resolve this mess. Dark wizards are forces to be reckoned with."

For a second, the man seemed utterly surprised (Nicolas took pride in that - _Ha, can't pull one over a man fifteen times your senior, laddie!_ ) before a flash of realization spread across his features.

Nicolas smirked as the man nodded.

Of course, he was worried he might have offended his guest when Mr. Morgan stood up. Nicolas furrowed his brows. "Leaving so soon?" His guest chuckled.

"My hour is over, Mr. Flamel." Eyes widening, Nicolas cast the _Tempus_ spell.

"Merlin's beard, you're right!"

Then Nicolas laughed, too, and stood up. "Well, I'll be, Mr. Morgan. I enjoyed our little discussion more than I thought I would." Grinning, he continued, "You must stop by again sometime."

Smiling faintly, Mr. Morgan agreed, "Of course, Mr. Flamel."

Taking something out from his pocket - a muggle pocket-watch of all things! - and peering down at it, Mr. Morgan frowned. "I'm afraid I must be off, Mr. Flamel. I have another appointment to attend today. It has been an honor to meet you." He stuck out his hand and this time Nicolas shook it.

"You as well," Nicolas smiled. "Come back in a few weeks and we'll actually have tea."

Chuckling, Mr. Morgan nodded before walking down the steps and taking a left down the street. _Odd chap. Doesn't Apparate either. Perhaps he hasn't passed that blasted test?_ The Ministry had been shoving their bloody noses into everything these days. When he was young, there certainly hadn't been a government test to _travel_!

Mr. Morgan visited a few more times. He offered Nicolas the most interesting conversations and they weren't limited to immortality either. He discussed magical diseases with the man, whom he soon after referred to as Henry, and found Henry to be most informed as to the causes and symptoms. In fact, he'd encouraged the man to write an encyclopedia. Magical hospitals could use his knowledge.

Unfortunately, Henry disappeared a year later. He tried to send owls to find him. He even tried a location spell or two. But it seemed the man had disappeared from England and Great Britain entirely. Perenelle was perhaps even more upset than he was. She'd been quite taken with the handsome young man. Nicolas soon gave up his efforts to find Henry.

It seemed most likely to him that Henry had died. He probably hadn't listened to Nicolas' advice about turning the dark wizard over to the Ministry, the fool.

So he got on with his life.

Henry became but a fond memory.

Little did he know he had been talking with an actual, not manufactured, immortal - one which he would soon see again.

* * *

Sorry for the long hiatus. College and work kept me busy. Hope you enjoyed this!

Ilysia


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